Smudges on the Mirror
by Olivia Beige
Summary: A considerable amount of things are unexpected and rather incomprehensible after 1998: Draco Malfoy's career choice, courting decision, and rabid subscription to The Daily Prophet.


"You do like my hair, don't you?"

Draco blinked, his fingers starkly snagging on the locks.

"I suppose," he allowed. There were only a handful of times he had socially embarrassed himself, but all of those involved biscuits and choking. He should be fine now. Draco clenched his fist and pulled away, unsuspectingly bringing along a fistful of hair, clingings of shame. He frowned at his uncooperative hand.

Astoria's lips twitched.

"Come inside," she invited, stepping away from the oak leaves' stilted shadows. "Daphne's waiting for you, too."

Withholding a sigh, Draco peered at the gilded open doors, marked neither by Unpleasant malicious boots nor the Ministry's dutiful feathers. "I should think we all know what this is about. The whole event's utterly unnecessary."

"It's only polite." Astoria was already walking ahead. The light material of her lavender robes breezed past the peeking grass, catching sunlight and tossing it in Draco's way. "It's also polite to stop reading the _Prophet _for a while." She added, over her shoulder, "We socialise in parties."

Draco hesitated, then abandoned the day's issue on the stone bench. It didn't matter: there were other copies, and he subscribed. Boot heels crunching on the walk and sending fallen blossoms swirling, he drew level with Astoria with a casual, "Did you hear of Potter's endorsement of the House-Elves Bill?"

* * *

"That was rather unexpected, Draco."

Draco hummed, turning a page of the _Prophet_. There were a lot of unexpected things in this world, Pansy's continual survival in the Wizengamot student halls among them. He also tossed in the unlikely pile a wealthy Weasley, and he knew how that particular nouveau riche behaved: dragon jackets and drinking parties and ridiculous studs on the sole freckled ear.

The sheer level of proposals and idiocy in the Ministry nowadays, however, were entirely expected. _Gods_.

He groped for his cup.

Father cleared his throat, then inclined his head toward a waiting Mother.

"I suppose," Draco allowed. He didn't miss the minute glance his parents exchanged, not when they finally used this airy East Wing breakfast room.

"Was Daphne Greengrass not your classmate?"

Draco failed to see the unexpectedness of that. His cup was left ungroped by a mere part-inch.

"What your father meant to say, and what I also wanted to know, is that when did you become acquainted with Astoria."

"Well," Draco drew out, "she is Daphne's sister."

"You've interacted with her at Hogwarts?" his mother wanted to know.

"No, Pansy's the only girl I – "

"Miss Parkinson is out of question," his father interrupted. "What have we told you about appearances, not since – "

"But you've socialised with Daphne before?" his mother interrupted his father.

"Once." Draco sat back, popping a bite of toast in his mouth. "Outside school, third year at Christmas. She's Pansy's friend. Also once in Charms, back in first year, and once in fifth year Potions." Now _that _was retentive memory, if he said so himself. Which he said so.

"And Astoria?"

Draco pondered about this as he finally brought his cup to his lips. "I don't know." He lifted a shoulder. "I think she passed me a cream jug in my second year?"

His parents stared at him. He stared back, fingers twitching on the _Prophet_'s pages. Father turned back to his plate and looked like he wanted to slump against the table for sanity, forehead held safe by a palm.

To his mother's gaze, Draco said, "And last week, obviously. Astoria's a very lovely lady, and I would quite like to meet her again."

Draco returned to reading the news. After some time, with the sunlight casting a deeper yellow on the powder blue tablecloth, he remarked, "Weasley's just got himself into Auror training. No doubt due to Potter. Potter's just finished training, you see, and allegedly finished quite splendidly. Of course: he has had advanced experiences."

His parents had nothing to discuss about that.

* * *

Astoria's voice was muffled by fur when she asked, "What do you plan to do?"

"About what?"

She made an odd gesture with her hand. "Your…career?"

Ah. Pansy had asked about that in a couple of her rare letters, and his mother asked that with her eyes whenever he resurfaced from leisure reading in the library. His father had taken to sneaking in family history books on the shelves near his table.

"I'm thinking about it. I want something…practical for the family assets. Which I'll also enjoy doing."

They walked in silence. Lingering snow from ten minutes ago was already absent on the walkway; Draco approved of their house-elves' efficiency. A good house-elf should not be seen, and Draco furiously hoped that the bill in Wizengamot would also not be seen by the light of the day as law.

"Let's play Quidditch?"

Astoria's smile was quiet, but her eyes were loud with a secret.

"You play? I thought I once heard from Daphne that your parents wouldn't let their daughters engage in the game."

"That's right. But…we went to Hogwarts. Girls were in teams," she said with fondness. "The Holyhead Harpies were practically worshipped in my dorm."

Draco changed tracks and led them to the broom shed in a bout of excitement.

"So how did you learn?" he asked, feeling an odd curiosity pumping in his chest. "Did your parents find out?"

Astoria tucked her gloved hands in her cloak. She'd refused to walk with their arms linked, having assured him that she didn't really link arms while walking. "They didn't. I flied during weekends, even Hogsmeade weekends." Her voice perked up. "Cho Chang also taught me some dives. She's a nice girl, and among the Harpies supporters I've met."

Draco didn't stop the odd curiosity's compulsion. "What about your broom, though?"

"Are you asking me if I cheated my way through my trust fund?" she grinned. It was a charming grin, but it jarred Draco somehow. He decided to put a finger on it later.

"I suppose," he allowed.

She shook her head. "Couldn't do that. I would have if I could have, though. I used the brooms from the school shed. Then I saved up some money. Daphne also helped, so I got myself a broom for my 15th birthday."

Draco nodded to urge her to continue, finding himself raptly listening.

"I had it sent home with a classmate during holidays." She paused. "We never told."

They were now a long way from the manor. Light snow was already falling, powdering Astoria's cap. Just a few yards down the path, the shed came in sight, the only constant among the now barren clump of birch.

"So, shall we play?" Astoria challenged.

Draco felt the tug at the corner of his lips. He opened the shed, and wished that he had had her brand of fervent wish as a child.

* * *

"I've been thinking of being a Quidditch commentator. Or some form of Quidditch reporter," Astoria whispered near his ear as they danced. Wisps of her hair tickled Draco's chin, but he chose to focus on the pearl pin. It was clasped vividly against her hair, like moon reflected on water.

"What do you think?" she asked, after a twirl.

"It would be brilliant," he supported. "I just wished circumstances had been different. You could've been already on trial for several teams, especially the Holyhead Harpies."

She smiled at him. Over her head, Draco saw Pansy looking at them oddly.

Later, scrutinizing the shrimp and lemon between her red-nailed fingers, she told him, "Congratulations, again."

"How is it?" he asked, grabbing a flute from the bubbling fountain tower.

"This canapé? Lacks the littlest bit of significant butter."

"The Wizengamot student hall, Parkinson," he smirked. "And my father's family has had that recipe for ages."

"I did not ask how long you lot were doing it wrong," she said in her particular lazy way. "As for my education, well. I've learned to…see things."

"What things?" he indulged her. Draco would've married her, thusly earning the common status of marrying a best friend and earning his father's disapproval of a less than perfect image. Draco would've married her, if Pansy hadn't despised babies and "medical horrors," which were the main point for the whole madness.

She'd been also supremely unimpressed when he sprayed wet lumps of hazelnut butter biscuit on her face, one nervous O.W.L. day breakfast.

Pansy made a show of gazing at Astoria, who was laughing with Daphne and her Gringotts team.

Draco frowned. "I don't see your point."

"You don't surprise me. I've always been less daft than you."

"I resent that," he snickered.

They surveyed the hall, lit by floating baubles and draped in satin. Draco often flicked his eyes towards Astoria to see what Pansy meant, but failed everytime. Pansy was giving more attention to the food, appearing unconcerned that she had given Draco minor distress.

He turned to her. "Heard of Potter's petition for Snape's portrait?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Rather unexpected, isn't it? They hated each other. I hope he elaborates on the speech he'll be delivering."

"There's a speech?" Pansy's tone became mocking. Draco didn't know if she was mocking Potter, which was expected, or if she'd been inconspicuously off her face with alcohol, which was entirely expected.

"Yes. Next week in the Ministry Atrium."

She hummed, red lips curling around her flute's rim. Then, she pulled him by the hand to the table on the other side of the champagne fountain, and got herself gazpacho shots with cheese straws.

"I have fun in student hall," she told him.

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. Theories to read, arguments to disintegrate. Student shops to raid."

"No one's giving you a hard time, then?"

She lifted a purple silk shoulder. "I don't really mind." He must've looked indignant then, for she flapped a hand. "By which I mean it's beneath my notice. We study ethical and moral theories, so the minds open a bit, all the while flailing bemusedly." She nibbled on a cheese straw, dark eyes roving his face. "It's … quite liberating."

Draco swallowed a sort of thrumming which was starting up in his chest region. He looked at the platter of smoked salmon on toast, taking in the expensive ingredients clumped together on silver, and absently picked one. He finished it by also noticing, with a jolt, the champagne fountain and his parents' robes and the goblin-forged flutes.

"How do you do it?" he asked, voice coming out jagged.

"Do what?"

"Walk to the bookshops, argue with the booksellers. Talk to the faculty. That sort of thing."

Pansy's brows arched. "Why? Aren't _you_ showing your face in Diagon Alley? In the Ministry?"

"I do," he scowled. "I walk in, do business, walk out."

She pursed her lips as she considered him. "Well, then. You're doing it right: eyes forward. Not sideways to people, not behind to…unpleasantness."

He accepted her proffered cheese straw. Their silent hovering resumed.

Eventually, Pansy asked, "Are you, at the very least, happy?"

"I suppose," Draco thought out loud.

* * *

"I plan to enter the Wizengamot student hall," Draco announced over breakfast.

Father replaced a raspberry on his plate. Mother continued stirring her tea.

Astoria smiled at him, eyes laughing bright and matching the late spring plant behind her.

"That's very good, Draco," Father said. "You realise that you'll be the first Malfoy to do so in 17 generations?"

"Then you will be the first Malfoy to do so in 17 generations," Mother rejoined. "That is very good, Draco. Tell us more about this student hall."

Draco's fingers skittered along the edges of the newspaper, which heralded the fact that Potter and his team had caught the Carrows. "A lot has been happening lately. House-elves, talks on land reform. Reparations. And…" He cleared his throat. "And if I learned more about these, I thought we could have security. Much more security than…depending on friendships. With people concerned."

His father ate the raspberry. His mother sipped her tea.

"It'll not be demeaning toil," Draco tried again. "And our vaults could surely welcome incoming gold to balance the outgoing ones, especially with the recent government demands. Change is _sweeping_ us, and I won't let them order us what to do with our land and our gold without the least fighting chance."

Astoria smoothed, "It will be excellent for the family. Draco will have proper credentials to be unquestionably involved with such matters, now that old blood's beginning to hardly matter."

Mother's gaze settled on Astoria. "And what shall you do while Draco studies, Astoria?"

"I?" Astoria beamed. "I would love to be involved in Quidditch." At Father's double-take and Mother's eyebrow lift, she continued, "I have no chance in earning a place among the Holyhead Harpies as I lack practice. But I think reporting matches and crafting brooms will suit me."

"Crafting brooms," Father said, flatly.

They all stared at one other for a moment, then returned to their food. A particularly chilly breeze ruffled the lace curtains.

As if urged by the wind, Father put down his fork and drawled, "Draco will put up with obnoxious Wizengamot faculty, will no doubt be subjected to defend some low-life as practice, and Astoria will craft in some workshop in Cardiff while running after Quidditch games in her spare time." He made a visible effort to hide the affront in his scowl. "How very…quaint."

"Do it, my dears," Mother put in, eyes narrowing slightly at Father.

"I will," Draco decided.

He'd already decided a fortnight ago.

* * *

"You didn't tell me about the broom crafting." Draco caught up with Astoria in the entrance hall, pulling on her gloves. "Was that serious?"

"Yes," she replied, blithe as the spring wind wafting in from the tall windows.

"You will really be sitting in some workshop in Cardiff."

Astoria's left brow quirked, lifting with it the left corner of her lips. "Anything else?"

"You're – " a woman " – you're, that is – "

"I'm the first lady to do so in 17 generations?" she laughed.

"I mean to say, what if it's unpleasant because it's different, and you're different?"

"I will love it, anyway. Besides," her chin jutted out a bit, "I can take care of myself."

There was that thing about her, again, that simultaneously drew and jarred Draco. He couldn't put a finger on it…

"I know," Draco agreed, and smiled.

He watched her stroll to the front gates for the Apparition point, her tresses a black trail of claws beneath her hat, her green robes rippling.

He watched her reach the Apparition point and twist back to give him a wave, a blot of black and green in the distance.

Astoria turned on the spot. The newspaper tore in Draco's hands.

* * *

Pansy crossed her maroon-robed legs and shot him a look. Draco stopped his stealthy fussing on his bottle green first year robe, apparently failing on the stealth part.

"It's rather surreal," he reasoned.

She snorted. It was a good thing that Granger was on the podium, in all her glory of bushy hair and unnaturally neat maroon robes, welcoming the assembly, or else they might've been inflicted with the disapproving face she'd sent some hapless gnome earlier that morning.

Down on the centre block, Potter sat with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, among the personages to deliver a speech for everyone who passed the three-round entrance examinations.

Pansy folded her copy of the_ Prophet_.

"You knew," Draco accused her.

"I saw a thing, that's all."

"You could've told me."

"You would have a harder time denying it. I'm impressed you were able to focus on your exams."

Over the balcony railings, Draco saw Potter grin at something Granger had said. It was a charming grin. Draco's jaw clenched and his hands formed into fists.

The crowd below, mostly half-bloods and Muggleborns and MacMillans, were laughing appreciatively. Draco sneered and despaired of the times. He had just been confronted by how truly different the air was when exposed to it in a rather significant length of time.

Reign in himself. He needed to do that.

It was Astoria's birthday the following day. Draco decided to treat her to a quiet dinner after a walk in the countryside not far from the Silver Arrows' shop, because she's partial to low-key unlike Daphne. He also made a note to give her a new pair of working gloves.

Turning to Pansy, he said, "You know, Astoria shrugs with her hands, not her shoulders. I've just noticed last week."

Pansy hummed, red lips curling. Draco's eyes grazed the newspaper in her hands to avoid the less daft glint in her eyes. His head snapped back to the podium. And only to the podium. He swore to leave behind less than focused thoughts in this assembly hall, among the mauve velvet curtains and dark wood and padded chairs.

"Good luck with your stay," Pansy said as they clapped Granger to her seat. "Good luck to you, broadly speaking." She patted his arm.

"I know," he informed her. "I'll be better," Draco promised.

_**fin**_


End file.
